


to a nunnery, go, and quickly too

by semperfiona, starknight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a Nun (Good Omens), Convent Setting, Crowley is a Nun (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Female Pronouns for Aziraphale and Crowley, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Harm as a Way of Repenting, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight
Summary: “I bet,” Crowley said slowly, as if she were relishing each syllable as they passed across her tongue, “that you couldn’t make it as a nun.”In which Crowley and Aziraphale train to be nuns in the 1960s, and entirely fail to think through the consequences.*** PODFIC AVAILABLE ***
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 191
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to start by thanking EVERYONE who made this possible: the GOBB mods, my betas, [SaerM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaerM/pseuds/SaerM) and [miss-minnelli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlollyshipperalltheway/pseuds/miss-minnelli), [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona) for the incredible podfic, and everyone on the GOBB discord server. I've made some incredible friends, and I couldn't be more grateful to everything that brought us together.
> 
> [FULL PODFIC HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413769)
> 
> If you enjoy this fic, please leave kudos and/or comments, it means the world to me! Stay safe, sane and awesome people ❤❤❤

“I entered this convent as a postulant, oh, fifty years ago. I have not set foot outside since. For those of you to whom God is not a fantasy, nor a daydream, nor your imaginary best friend, you too may have the honour of working towards this kind of life. A relationship with God is hard work, and make no mistake, it takes dedication to foster the kind of love you’ll be trained in giving.” 

The Reverend Mother’s beady eyes travelled around the room. It was the first time in a while Aziraphale had felt seen - truly Seen - by a human. 

“As far as you are concerned, my voice is the voice of God here. Because God is not present to run this convent Himself, I stand in. So whenever I speak, you can assume that it is on His behalf that I do, and that His wishes are mine.”

Aziraphale wondered what the real God would have to say to that. Not that God had said much of anything to anyone recently.

“All of you girls will be spending the next six months as postulants. For those of you who make it that far, you’ll take your first vows at the end of this period, and enter the novitiate. This stage is not something we discuss unless we’ve been through it ourselves. You will have to wait for your time. Understood?”

Aziraphale nodded meekly with the others.

“I’d like to talk about silence. There are two main types of silence that are to be observed here. Regular silence is generally the way in which we govern ourselves - if you have a reason to speak, it is permissible, but keep your voice low. There is to be no shrieking, hysterics, or general kerfuffle in this convent. Grand silence starts at 9pm, and that means that you  _ Do. Not. Talk. _ Not until after morning prayers the next day. If you feel any of these rules will pose a problem for you, you are welcome to leave now. So. Any questions?”

A girl next to Aziraphale, with hair puffed into a great shiny curve over the top of her head, raised her hand.

“Nuns do not ask questions,” said the Reverend Mother, and glared daggers at the girl. Aziraphale kept her face blank. “You are excused.”

Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that Gabriel had sent her here as punishment, rather than the ‘odd job’ he’d said it was. Why humans imposed all these rules on themselves in the great farce that it brought them closer to God, she’d never know.

The other postulants seemed nice enough. Most of them were the typical donation (if a conscious human being could really be called a  _ donation) _ from a large Christian family, with names that pained even  _ Aziraphale _ . Bathsheba was a particularly noticeable one, and not just because of her unfortunate name. She was at once too loud and too quiet, unable to speak out in situations where it was required, but getting into trouble for laughing at dinner. She was taller than almost all of the nuns too, which gave her problems - the Reverend Mother enjoyed picking on her, forcing her to kneel on the gravel, so the older woman could finally look down upon her. 

Bathsheba, in short, was Aziraphale’s first order of business. She approached the young woman one day in the courtyard. This courtyard emanated an atmosphere in which Aziraphale would have expected overgrown ivy and magical wildflowers to poke through the cracked cobblestones - but instead, the plants were yellowed and dried with industrial weed-killer. Bathsheba was pacing about the benches. Her head was bowed but her strides were long and determined, not at all like the meek steps they’d been taught to use.

“Bathsheba?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “May I speak with you?”

Bathsheba jumped and looked up, her grey eyes wide. “Oh - yes, of course, Aziraphale. What is it?”

“I have noticed,” said Aziraphale, sitting on a bench and patting the seat next to her, “that you do not seem entirely comfortable here, my dear.”

Bathsheba did not sit down. “What?”

“Can I ask why you joined this convent?”

“I - I - I wish to devote my life to the worship of God,” she said. Aziraphale was practiced at repeating false and rehearsed responses. She could very easily recognize this one.

“Yes?” she prompted.

Bathsheba began pacing again, wringing her hands. “I - I - I - ugh. I didn’t realize it’d be like this.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It is a new way of life, and takes time to get used to, I believe.”

“You’re so perfect, though,” Bathsheba shot back defensively. “It’s easy for you.”

“I want to help you,” Aziraphale said, unsure of what she ought to do. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t need your help,” said Bathsheba. “I mean - thank you, really, for offering. But I’m fine. I am.” And the girl fled from the courtyard before Aziraphale could respond.

After that, Bathsheba took pains to avoid Aziraphale at every turn. This was disheartening, to say the least. Aziraphale liked to think of herself as a sort of protector of humanity - a parental figure. But she had little experience with actual parenting, and was starting to worry that she was genuinely terrible at it. She’d tried to bond with the other postulants too, but they were more interested in taking solitary turns about the garden and thinking about God than indulging in discussions of fine religious literature.

The assignment must surely be a punishment; why else would Aziraphale feel so lonely?

The next day, that all changed.

  
  


The only thought that wasn’t knocked out of Aziraphale’s head when she saw the newcomer was:  _ she’s beautiful. _

The next thought to break through to the surface was:  _ she’s Crowley. _

And with no small amount of alarm, the third thought formed on its own, being an entirely logical conclusion of the first two. 

_ Crowley is beautiful. _

Crowley’s hair, grown long and wavy once more, was pinned up in a loose bun. She wore a simple and modest black dress, with a dark red cardigan. She looked far more  _ respectable  _ than the ironic-yet-extremely-stylish image she usually presented (the one Aziraphale pretended to feel indifferent towards, but secretly deeply admired), and she was beautiful. 

(Aziraphale’s firmly established self-image of cozy bookshop owner was feeling insecure.)

Aziraphale tried not to stare as Crowley made her way across the room, tried not to hear the quiet clicking of kitten heels against the floor, tried desperately to listen to what Joan was saying next to her. But then the Reverend Mother held up her hands, and silence fell immediately.

“This is our newest postulant, Miss Antonia J. Crowley. I know you will all ensure she is made aware of the rules - and, of course, that she is settled comfortably.”

Aziraphale inclined her head slightly with the others in agreement, but couldn’t take her eyes off Crowley, who had her eyebrows raised above a polite smile. She wasn’t looking at Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale. Would you be so kind as to show Antonia around?”

Crowley was beautiful, and she was looking at Aziraphale, a little smile beginning to bloom.

“Of course, Reverend Mother,” Aziraphale murmured. She led Crowley into the corridor and straight into the nearest broom cupboard.

“Is this part of the tour?” Crowley asked, looking doubtfully at the cobwebs in the corner. “Well, angel, it’s not very -”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley went quiet, her eyes wide and yellow and searching. “What do you mean?”

“I  _ mean, _ the Arrangement - we - we’re not supposed to get in each other’s way.”

“I’m not going to  _ get in your way, _ angel,” Crowley said, her shoulders stiffening. “I’m just here for -”

“Yes? For what, exactly?” How dare Crowley act like she wasn’t on some demonic mission. How dare she pretend to be all pious and join a  _ convent, _ for God’s sake.

“For you, actually,” Crowley murmured. Aziraphale forgot all about being indignant.

“For… me?” she managed.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Crowley shrugged. “I’ve missed seeing you around, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s head felt all funny, and her face was hot. lt didn’t help that the broom cupboard was cramped, and she was forced to stand just a few inches away from Crowley. “I… Well, I’m on Heavenly business.”

“Figured as much.”

“So I won’t have any time for, er…” Aziraphale trailed off. She had been about to say  _ fraternizing, _ but that wasn’t right, was it? She would never get anything done with Crowley hanging around, making remarks into Aziraphale’s ear and looking too gorgeous for anyone’s good. She had to get out of - of whatever  _ this _ was. 

“Right,” said Crowley, sticking her hands in her cardi pockets in a most unladylike gesture. “That’s fine.”

“So you’ll be going, then.”

Crowley shrugged. “Might as well go on the tour, eh?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Fine.  _ Fine.” _

“Come off it,” Crowley grinned, linking her arm with Aziraphale’s and propelling them out into the corridor. “You like me really.”

Aziraphale walked Crowley around the convent in meaningless loops and paths that often crossed back over themselves. It wasn’t  _ her _ fault if the tour, which usually lasted twenty minutes at most, ended up taking well over an hour. It was Crowley’s fault for having such interesting stories.

“And then, oh, you won’t  _ believe _ this,” Crowley went on, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand excitedly. “The paleontologists  _ dropped _ the bones! And they shattered everywhere!”

“No!” gasped Aziraphale, entirely too taken with the story. “Could they fix them?”

“Lost,” announced Crowley dramatically, “to the sands of time.”

“Oh, what rotten luck.”

“Eh,” shrugged Crowley. “There’s lots of other bones to discover. _ If at first you don’t succeed…” _

“Give up on the whole business, I expect,” Aziraphale sighed. “Have I shown you the library yet?”

“Four times, but go on, you haven’t told me about half the books in there yet,” Crowley smiled.

A novitiate appeared at the end of the hall, walking with her head down and arms held neatly behind her back. Aziraphale shook off Crowley’s hand like it burnt. They stayed quiet until she had passed.

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” Crowley mused. “All the rules they have here.”

“No different from Heaven.”

Crowley let out a huff. “I suppose not. Look, angel, what if I stayed, just for a bit?”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep the hope off her face. “I really do need to work here, Crowley, I can’t have you messing it up.”

“Then I won’t mess it up.” Crowley took off her sunglasses and turned to Aziraphale. Aziraphale, not for the first time, wondered if the sunglasses weren’t at least partially so that her exposed, extraordinary yellow eyes would have even more effect. “It’s been  _ centuries,  _ angel.”

Aziraphale bit her lip and looked at the floor. “Do what you must. I shall have no part in it.” Heaven had sent her a  _ very _ strongly worded note about the church incident of 1941[1]. She would not tempt fate again. No matter how much she might want to.

[1] _ To the Principality Aziraphale; if you demonstrate such sheer incompetence and folly once more, you shall regret it. Do not put yourself into positions where you require miracles to avoid discorporation. Do not ‘improvise’ on your orders. Do not pick sides in mortal wars. Divinely Yours, the Archangel Gabriel. _

“I will,” said Crowley, her mouth curling into a soft smile that Aziraphale didn’t deserve. “See you at dinner, then.”

Aziraphale wanted to accompany her to her room, to tell her all the things that had happened while they hadn’t been talking, to explain her ridiculous behaviour in 1941. But she had Heaven’s work to do, and an Archangel’s wrath to avoid, so she contented herself with watching Crowley’s hips sway around the corner, and then marched herself off in the other direction.

  
  


It was after hours, which meant that no-one ought to be talking. Except someone was. Aziraphale didn’t know why no one had told them off, and they were being very inconsiderate, really.  _ Some of us are trying to read. _ She slipped out of bed and padded down the corridor in bare feet.

Of  _ course _ it was Crowley’s room, Aziraphale thought, pausing by the door. Her first thought was a party with demonic levels of debauchery and sin, but the other postulants were far too well-mannered for such a thing, and there were only two voices coming from the room.

Aziraphale strained her ears to listen to them.

“But what if someone asks? What if they find out?”

“They won’t,” said Crowley’s voice. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“You can’t  _ know _ that.” Was that Bathsheba?

There was a short silence, in which Aziraphale’s angelic senses swore they heard the rustle of fabric.

“It’s okay, Sheba,” Crowley said very quietly. Tiny little suppressed squeaks emanated into the hallway. Aziraphale realized Bathsheba was crying, and felt sick. “It’s okay. This is where you’re meant to be. I can feel it.”

“I d-d-don’t know what’s - what’s  _ wrong _ with me,” Bathsheba gasped between her muffled sobs. “I just always - I just - I never liked  _ boys.”  _ She cried harder, and Aziraphale could feel a quieting charm thicken around her.

“It’s alright,” Crowley soothed. “It’s alright, Sheba, this is the right place for you. I know it. Shh, now. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Aziraphale backed away down the hall, her heart thumping. She wondered if she ought to intervene - it wasn’t terribly angelic of her to leave her charge alone with a demon, was it? But the idea of going in there - well, Crowley seemed to have it entirely under control. It inspired a little twinge of jealousy, fluttering hot green under her ribs, but she pushed it away. Crowley didn’t  _ have _ to help Bathsheba but, out of her wonderful and terrifying kindness, she was doing it anyway.

Positively angelic, one might say.

The next night, Aziraphale crept back along the hallway to Crowley’s room, though there weren’t any voices emanating from the door this time. She knocked on the half-open door.

“Mmm?” came a sleepy groan.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked stupidly. “Is it - may I - er, can I come in?”

“Yep,” Crowley grunted. Aziraphale slipped through the door and gently pushed it closed. Crowley squinted at her from the bed, her hair flowing red and messy over the pillow. “What’re you doing here, angel?”

Aziraphale licked her lips nervously. “Well, I - I heard you talking with Bathsheba last night, actually.”

Crowley frowned. “Oh. And?”

“Well, it got me thinking. I mean - there’s not really very much time to talk during the day, is there? And it can be hard, with everyone around, to really talk  _ properly. _ ”

“I thought you didn’t have time to talk to me?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale winced.

“Well. Maybe we could talk now? While the humans are asleep.” Aziraphale sat down on the bed, not meeting Crowley’s gaze. It burned into her cheek. “I missed you, too.”

Crowley pushed her off the bed then, and Aziraphale hit the floor with a small yelp. She opened her mouth to admonish the demon, but when she looked around Crowley was holding up the covers, her eyes wide and warm.

“Come on, then,” Crowley said. “You’ll freeze out there.”

Aziraphale let a small smile creep onto her face, and hauled herself into the bed, revelling in the warmth between the sheets. 

“Oh, thank you,” she murmured.

“What was it you wanted to talk about, then, angel?” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale became very aware of how close the single bed had brought them, and that her hand was brushing Crowley’s side. 

“Er,” said Aziraphale, when Crowley’s feet tangled with hers.

“Are you always this cold?” Crowley asked, wincing at the contact. “Angel, you  _ need _ to invest in some woolly socks.”

Aziraphale laughed, and shuffled a little closer. “I confess that I do wonder if the blankets here need to be quite so modest. It gets a bit chilly, don’t you think?”

“Can’t you just miracle yourself warm?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale tried not to think about Gabriel’s mouth forming the words  _ frivolous miracles. _ “Not - not regularly.”

Crowley’s face did something strange, a contortion of anger seeming to pass across it, ironed out the next moment. “Angel, if you’re ever cold, you come here, understand?”

The next moment, the tingle of a demonic miracle spread through the air, and Aziraphale sighed at the cosiness of the bed. “Oh, oh, thank you, that’s much better.”

“Good.” Crowley’s eyes pierced hers for a moment.

“Er,” said Aziraphale awkwardly. “So. You never did tell me how you found me in that church, you know. In 1941?”

“Oh,  _ that,” _ Crowley said, a fond grin spreading across her face. “Well, if you must know, your neighbour was awfully nosy. Mr Tottenham?”

“Oh  _ God,” _ Aziraphale groaned. “He would.”

“It wasn’t just him, though,” Crowley said, her eyes sparkling in the dark. “There was this flyer going around, you see, about the church…”

Aziraphale listened, and Crowley talked, and then she talked while Crowley listened, words and memories spiralling together through the night. They discovered all their near misses, all the almost-meetings, and all the times they’d been entirely separate. Or, at least, they got through the first five years of their separation, before the rising bell startled them and they had to go about their usual days.

The next night, Aziraphale went back to Crowley’s room as soon as the Grand Silence had started. She didn’t bother to knock this time and crawled straight into bed, where Crowley was waiting for her. Aziraphale sighed in bliss as warmth enveloped her, and laid her head on the scratchy pillow.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I don’t actually need to be here much longer.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “You don’t?”

“Well, not really. I was only supposed to check that everything was going smoothly. Like a - a surprise inspection.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “So you’re going to leave?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I don’t have anything else to do, but I miss the bookshop.”

“But you’d stay? If there was a good enough reason?”

Aziraphale sighed. “And what reason would that be?”

Crowley’s resulting grin was full of mischief. “I’ll make a bet with you.”

“A  _ bet?” _

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Well, it is said to be wise to enter into a deal with a demon,” Aziraphale said, sniffing delicately. Crowley grinned wider, and she was unable to help herself smiling back. “Oh, go on then. What bet?”

“I bet,” Crowley said slowly, as if she were relishing each syllable as they passed across her tongue, “that you couldn’t make it as a nun.”

Aziraphale gaped. “But I could! I’m an  _ angel, _ for Heaven’s sake!”

“In fact, I don’t think you could even make it to novitiate.”

Aziraphale let out an overly dramatic gasp. “How dare you insult the - the - the integrity of my honour, good lady!”

Crowley snorted. “I’m  _ not _ a good lady.”

“Well, quite. You’re lucky not to have been kicked out of the convent yet.” This was not true.

“So you don’t think I could cut it as a nun?”

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes. “What are the stakes of this bet, then?”

Crowley tapped her lips in thought. “How about… hmmm… I’ll be your slave for a day.” 

Aziraphale squinted. “Not good enough. A week.”

“Only if you’ll be my slave for a month, when you lose.”

“A month! How is that fair?”

After half an hour of good-natured bickering and shoving, they had settled on a deal. If either of them couldn’t make it to novitiate, they would serve time for a month, doing jobs at the other’s behest - barring Head Office’s commands, of course. If they made it past novitiate, but didn’t get to the temporary vows, it’d be a week.

“And if we both make it?”

“Well, then - then I’ll take you out to lunch, hmm?” Crowley said. “Anywhere you like.”

Aziraphale could already taste the Ritz’s oysters, second-to-none. “Delightful.”


	2. Chapter 2

The weeks flew by, and through it all wove one consistent shining red thread. Crowley became a constant of Aziraphale’s life. She spent her nights snuggled into the demon’s side more often than not, and said her morning prayers while Crowley made a mockery of her. Aziraphale knelt by her bed; Crowley stood over her, mumbling  _ bread is God is bread _ . It made it rather difficult to concentrate, but easy to laugh.

They sat next to each other in the abbey during prayer and song. Crowley - when she put her mind to it - had a very nice voice. Aziraphale’s had never been anything other than average, but she loved to sing, to raise it and feel the vibrations run through her. It was like catching a fly in honey, but if the fly were joy, and the honey were time - a single point where all the nuns were focussed together, all giving praise through song, the world in perfect harmony. 

Aziraphale liked to sit towards the back of the abbey so that after the songs she could be one of the first to breakfast. While the food was modest, porridge with nuts and fruit, Crowley would often miracle up a little something to brighten her day - honey or brown sugar - and Aziraphale would smile, blush, and eat with gusto. 

From breakfast until lunch they usually had some kind of class or guided prayer. The first week had been re-learning how to walk, talk, and think like nuns. Crowley had made vomiting gestures when no-one else was looking, and Aziraphale had needed to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing. Their classes nowadays usually involved ‘learning’ how to help out in the kitchens. Aziraphale didn’t mind it, though. Peeling could be quite meditative. 

Lunch would come and go, and with it, Crowley would miracle her the most delightfully ridiculous drinks. Nuns were strictly against alcohol, much to Aziraphale and Crowley’s dismay, but they drank out of very solid mugs which easily hid the top-tier wine Crowley could produce so swiftly. 

In the afternoon came individual meditations and readings. Aziraphale usually frequented the library, taking the time to indulge in the vast collection of poetry, metaphysical and otherwise, the nuns had stored. Crowley would pretend that she had other things to do, of course, but inevitably end up skulking around the shelves. Aziraphale always sat in the same spot, a squashy couch in the sunlight that streamed from a nearby window. By 4pm, Crowley would always be in the spot next to her, pretending to be deep in contemplative thought with her head on her hands, but actually fast asleep behind her dark glasses.

Evening prayer and dinner flew by in a flash, aided by more miracled Carménère, and then finally it was time for Aziraphale’s favourite part of the day. She brushed her teeth and showered beneath lukewarm water, scrubbing her hair with abysmally plain soap that the nuns made themselves, and then lay in her bed until the bell for Grand Silence tolled.

Then carefully, carefully, she would ease out of her sheets, and walk the short distance to Crowley’s room. Carefully, carefully, she slipped into Crowley’s bed. Carefully, so carefully, they would tell each other of their past lives, of people come and gone, of orders fulfilled and missions failed. Carefully, because Aziraphale was always aware of Heaven’s watchful eye. Carefully, because Crowley didn’t like to talk about some things - holy water most definitely included. Carefully, because God could see all, and Aziraphale didn’t want to Fall.

It was during one of these late-night conversations that Aziraphale made her first mistake - not as a nun, but as a friend. They had been talking of their argument, and all the things they wished they had not said.

“I - I do need you,” Crowley confessed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, actually.”

Aziraphale felt her heart warm. “Oh, I’m quite sure you’d manage.”

“I wouldn’t, though,” Crowley insisted, taking Aziraphale’s hand in hers. “You - you bring me hope, through the centuries. When no one else does. When Hell -”

Aziraphale couldn’t listen to any more. She put a finger on Crowley’s lips, and the demon stopped talking at once. 

“Don’t - don’t - just - hush.”

“But -”

“Don’t just  _ say _ things you can’t take back, Crowley.”

“But it’s  _ true.” _

Aziraphale hated fighting, but she knew how to do it, or at least, how to do it with Crowley. She knew how far the demon could be pushed and when to stop. It was a delicate tightrope of tension, swaying this way and that, but Aziraphale had gotten used to the patterns by now, and she knew how to avoid really hurting Crowley.

This vulnerability, though. Crowley’s eyes lost their daytime sheen of careful distance, becoming dark and endless amber. They were open. They said,  _ here’s my trust, please don’t break it. _ And Aziraphale didn’t know how to cope with it.

As the silence drew on, Aziraphale realized with horror that Crowley’s eyes were sparkling with tears. She felt as if her heart had been pried out of her chest and stomped on, and she couldn’t  _ breathe, _ oh God she couldn’t do anything, least of all  _ speak - _

And so Aziraphale fumbled for the covers and scrambled off the bed, her feet taking her away from those open eyes, from the terrifying trust Crowley had offered her, leading her instead into the lonely darkness of her own room.

Aziraphale never slept during the night, but this one felt particularly long.

  
  


Aziraphale was sure there were demonic miracles at work in the convent, because she seemed to encounter Crowley at every turn she made. She made special pains to avoid her regular schedule - she was late for meals, and she only went to the library right before bed - but there Crowley was, somehow sitting at the only empty table, right in the midst of the metaphysical poets.

It was infuriating. Well, infuriating for the first moment or so, and then Aziraphale would get a lump in her throat and feel her eyes begin to burn (which was ridiculous, she was not a mortal, she would not  _ cry). _ Oh, but why did Crowley have to bring up their old argument? It had been hard enough the first time, even with all the space of London between them. And no, it wasn’t about the same thing, this time it was - it really was Aziraphale in the wrong, and that didn’t sit well with her.

It didn’t sit well with her that Crowley looked so  _ dejected _ all the time, either. Whenever Aziraphale looked over from the other side of the empty table, she’d be pushing food around her plate, same as usual, but  _ gloomily. _

It took three days for Aziraphale to crack, or rather, spontaneously melt.

The Reverend Mother was addressing them about something, but Aziraphale wasn’t listening, because Crowley was sitting in front of her and her hair was done up in a bun. But one tiny strand of red-gold had escaped sometime during the day, and it waved defiantly at Aziraphale, a half-hearted attempt at one of those curls Aziraphale had always so adored. She watched it sway this way and that, catching the sunlight every now and then. It was so very beautiful.

The briefing was over in what seemed like a few seconds, but Aziraphale didn’t move. Crowley didn’t either. No-one seemed to notice the two postulants sitting quietly at the side, waiting for everyone else to leave. Aziraphale made sure of that.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Crowley didn’t turn around. She didn’t owe it to Aziraphale, of course, and that was fine. This would probably be easier without those eyes splitting Aziraphale’s heart in two.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, her voice wavering. “I didn’t - I just - I just want things to go back to the way they were. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You never do,” said Crowley, and turned around. Her eyes were back to their defensive appearance of day, golden and glittering. Hard. Impenetrable.

Aziraphale took one of Crowley’s hands in her own. Swallowed.

“I need you, too.” The words broke through the liminal space of day and made it anew. Aziraphale could hear her heart beating very loudly in her ears.

Crowley blinked. Aziraphale bit her lip. Then, seeming to bundle herself inwards, Crowley grinned.

“Obviously, angel. Who would’ve saved you from,” Crowley made a slashing movement downwards with her hand, then formed a finger gun and cocked it to the side of Aziraphale’s head, “otherwise?”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes, but smiled back, and the tension was broken. 

“Anyway,” said Crowley, turning to face her properly, straddling the wooden chair in a most un-nun-like way. “Are you going to stay? There’s a lot of odd demonic jobs needing doing, and you’re more than welcome to get a head start.”

It took Aziraphale a moment to wrap her head around what Crowley was asking. To remember the bet.

“Of course, why - why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, we’ve made it to novitiate.” Crowley raised an eyebrow at her.

“We have?”

“Did you not listen to a single word the Reverend Mother said?”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, feeling her face heat, “No?”

_ “Angel,” _ Crowley reprimanded delightedly. “Her voice is the voice of God, and you couldn’t be arsed listening to it?”

Aziraphale folded her arms across her chest. “I was distracted! I didn’t  _ mean _ to - oh - stop it!”

Crowley was laughing now, her head thrown back. “Remind me never to leave you, angel. You’re too good for this world.”

Aziraphale would have frozen, would have clammed up, if they hadn’t just gone through that whole procedure. And anyway, Crowley wasn’t serious. 

“Noted,” said Aziraphale. The answering smile that broke across Crowley’s face was worth never listening to a single word anyone said ever again.

  
  


Ever since they were popularized, Aziraphale had loved wedding dresses. It was a tribute to the purity of union, the blessed white untainted and intact. White was holy and righteous and divine. It shouldn’t work on a demon. Wedding dresses  _ should not work _ on demons.

But Crowley, once again, had proven herself the exception to the rule.

Their dresses were selected from a slightly musty supply cupboard, dirt dusted off the hems, and cobwebs blown off the veils. Even then, even when Crowley’s dress had an odd yellowish tinge at the bottom, she pulled it off. Not the dress. The look.

The end of her sleeves spread out, wide and dramatic; Crowley had already gotten scolded by Claire twice for swooshing her arms about. The dress was high-necked, but only came halfway down her calves. It was terribly scandalous - for nuns. The skirt had a lovely little poof out at the waist that made Aziraphale want to run her hands over the tighter material around Crowley’s waist - and in fact, Aziraphale had needed to help her zip up the tight bodice. She hadn’t thought she’d be nervous for the novitiate ceremony, but her hands shook as she drew the zipper up, covering Crowley’s pale skin with paler cloth.

Aziraphale had never imagined wearing a wedding dress herself - well, she had, but not in this particular situation. Hers was quite loose, and hung rather awkwardly off her shoulders. She frowned at it, rearranging the sash, but it still looked strange and lumpy draped over her.

Then gentle hands touched her waist, and she jumped, accidentally elbowing Crowley in the stomach.

“Oh, no, my dear, I’m so sorry! Are you alright? Cro - Antonia?” Aziraphale had to correct herself in front of the other postulants.

Crowley groaned dramatically. “I’m  _ dying, _ angel, you’ve killed me.”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes and caught a suspicious glance from Claire, who quickly dropped her veil in front of her face. Claire reminded Aziraphale terribly of Gabriel sometimes.

“You’re fine, look - oh - my dress,” Aziraphale said stupidly. It fit. How had that happened?

“You’re  _ welcome,” _ Crowley said, massaging her ribs. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a menace?”

Aziraphale smoothed her hands over the dress, a bead catching under her finger, and smiled. It wasn’t quite the splendour she’d always dreamed of, but it was nice. And Crowley was there. 

Much the same could be said for the ceremony. The priest wittered on, and on, and  _ on, _ and Aziraphale had to stifle a yawn. Thank God for the veil. The priest was talking about something to do with bread, and earthly gifts, and it seemed - finally - as if his speech might be drawing to a close. Aziraphale waited with bated breath. Anything to get off her knees on the cold stone floor.

The priest paused, and smiled, and began a whole new story about the purity of angels. Aziraphale couldn’t help it. She let out a tiny groan in the back of her throat.

Next to her, she heard Crowley exhale a huff of laughter.

“Bored, angel?” the demon whispered. Aziraphale raised her head and turned away, sniffing pointedly. “I know you are… At least you don’t have to worry about the bloody floor burning.”

Aziraphale was really quite thankful she didn’t have to worry about that. The high-grade steel kneecaps Crowley had on under her dress looked like they would chafe dreadfully.

“Fine,” she breathed, a tiny sound. “I’m bored.”

“Maybe if you -”

But the priest was walking down towards them, and saying something about vows, and it was finally time to get on with it. Aziraphale felt a gentle hand brush against hers. She flicked her eyes to Crowley and did her best not to smile.

“Sisters, what is it you desire?”

_ “With the help of God, I have come to know in this community, both the difficulty and the joy of a life completely devoted to Him,” _ Aziraphale murmured with the others. She felt Crowley’s hand brush against hers again, and in a sudden burst of courage, she took it. She heard a tiny noise from the back of Crowley’s throat.

_ “My desire is to be allowed to make perpetual profession within this community. I seek to become a temporary Bride of Christ for a year and a half, and to persevere -” _

Aziraphale peeked across at Crowley, the demon’s eyes large and luminous beneath the veil, gaze directed right at her. Crowley made no move to look away, and neither did Aziraphale. She squeezed Crowley’s hand.

_ “- in all my undying love.” _

The ceremony went on, and on, and all Aziraphale could register was the gentle stroking of Crowley’s thumb against the back of her hand.


	3. Chapter 3

“Novitiate is unlike any other phase of training.” The Reverend Mother gazed icily out over the assembled circle. “You will be tested and tried. It will be gruelling. Some of you will leave. For now, we will start with confession. God speaks through me, and He wants to know all of your sins. Your doubts. Your questioning and evil thoughts.”

It was an effort not to look at Crowley. Aziraphale kept herself facing straight ahead, and schooled her expression into neutrality.

“We will start with… ah, yes. Bathsheba.”

Aziraphale’s head turned involuntarily and she gaped at the young girl, who shuffled into the middle of the circle on her knees. Aziraphale could see her hands clenching the fabric of her sleeves.

“My child. Tell me of your doubts.”

Sheba kept her head bowed. “My… d-doubts?”

“Yes, child.”

“I don’t have -”

“Lying is a sin, my child.”

Bathsheba’s shoulders began to shake. Aziraphale wanted to look away, to shield her from the circle of prying eyes. But she couldn’t. Her nerves were all twisted and bundled within her. She could see Gabriel’s face when she closed her eyes, and she felt sick.

“Now tell me,” the Reverend Mother said, her voice hardening, “your doubts.”

Aziraphale wished she could look away from Sheba’s trembling lip. She wished she could put her fingers in her ears. She wished she could be anywhere but kneeling in that circle, listening to the poor girl list off her sins.

“Angel,” Crowley said when it was over, catching her hand as she made to flee down the corridor. “We don’t have to stay.”

It was all Aziraphale could do not to fling herself into Crowley’s arms and begin weeping. She screwed up her face to keep it from doing anything else, and shook her head.

_ “Aziraphale,” _ Crowley insisted, pulling her into a shadowy nook in the hallway. “Look, let’s just go. I’ll be your slave for a week. A month. A year. Promise.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide and earnest and so  _ kind. _ Aziraphale couldn’t bear how kind they were. She didn’t deserve any of it.

“If we leave,” she said, pulling her hand away from Crowley to wring it anxiously, “what happens to the others? They’ll still have to go through it, and poor Sheba, she - she needs you.”

Crowley’s face smoothed into a small smile. “You’re too good for this world, angel.”

“You’ve got it all backwards,” Aziraphale whispered, looking at the floor. She didn’t dare look up until the rustling of fabric prompted her to, and Crowley was there, so close, so  _ close, _ and Aziraphale took a hasty step backwards.

“We’ll stay.” Aziraphale said. “We have to. And I’ll - I’ll make some enquiries upstairs. See if I can’t lighten the rules a bit. It all seems a bit ridiculous.”

Crowley nodded, but something in her face was still strained taut. Aziraphale, with centuries of practice, pretended not to notice. 

That night, Aziraphale didn’t visit Crowley’s room. Instead, she drafted a memo.

_ To the Archangel Gabriel, _

_ It has come to my attention, during my stay at this lovely little convent, that the rules and restrictions placed on nuns are rather outdated. _

No - outdated wouldn’t do. Gabriel didn’t really understand the mortal passage of time, and a century was nothing to him.

_ … the rules and restrictions placed on nuns are too strict. _

_ Too strict? _ Aziraphale could hear the angel asking.  _ You must be going soft. _

Not that, then.

_ … the rules and restrictions placed on nuns are unkind, by Heaven’s standards, and unbefitting of our most loyal followers. _

He’d probably still laugh, but it was worth a shot.

_ I do not think it will further our cause with the humans if we continue to enforce such harsh means of punishment for those who struggle with the divine path. For instance, if the incitements to self-flagellate could be removed, more human females  _ (Aziraphale had to remind herself to talk like a Real Angel here)  _ might be persuaded to join convents. _

_ Sincerely yours, _

_ The Principality Aziraphale. _

Aziraphale signed her name with as little flourish as possible. She’d learnt proper cursive in the early 19th century, with disastrous consequences. Her notes had been duplicated and stuck up all over Heaven as an example of the dangers of fraternizing with humans. 

Aziraphale dearly hoped this one wouldn’t follow the same pattern. She picked up the note and blew gently over it. It whipped out of existence with a little  _ whoosh _ and a scattering of sparkles.

The next day, Claire came and tapped her on the shoulder at breakfast.“Your uncle is here to visit,” she whispered into her ear, her voice sickly-sweet. “Reverend Mother sent  _ me _ to come and fetch you, he says he has to go soon, important business. Come along now.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, whose expression said absolutely everything Aziraphale wished she could scream about being told to  _ come along now _ in that smug, haughty tone -  _ and  _ by someone three hundred times younger. She ate the last bite of her porridge before getting up, and followed Claire to the visitation area.

She’d never been here before. It was very strange, set in the back area of the church, with a wire mesh spread from wall to wall. And on the other side of the mesh -

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “You, er. Got my message?”

“I did,” he said. “And I came straight away. How very worrying.  _ Unkind _ rules and restrictions? On our most  _ loyal followers? _ Well, it won’t do.”

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale sighed. “I was hoping you’d help me to…” But she trailed off, because Gabriel was making a very odd noise. It was like he had some great expanse of air held behind his nostrils he wanted to push out, a puff at a time.

Then she realized he was laughing.

“Aziraphale!” he declared, still making the bizarre breathy huffs and snorts, “Always the joker.”

“That’s me,” she agreed weakly. She felt a leaden lump form in her throat.

“Well, I just wanted to pop in to say, good one!  _ Unkind.  _ Ha!” 

Aziraphale privately thanked her lucky stars that the mesh prevented Gabriel from delivering his usual jovial shoulder slap. She probably still had bruises from the last time.

“Thanks,” she said, trying desperately to smile. “I’ll, er, be seeing you, then?”

“You always do!” Gabriel said, stretching his mouth in a too-tight grimace. “Later, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale watched him go, the taste of old milk and dashed hope curdling on her tongue.

“Angel, what did you expect?” 

They were sitting in the library, in Crowley’s favourite spot, a large and comfy couch that seemed to lap up afternoon sunlight. Usually at this time of day, Aziraphale would be sitting back in the armchair on the other side of the room, her toes curled up as she read, while Crowley napped. Today, she had her legs pulled to her chest, and let her head rest on her knees in defeat.

“He  _ laughed _ at me,” she said, and was horrified to hear her voice wobble. She cleared her throat and tried again. “He thought it was a joke. A joke!”

Crowley made a small noise in the back of her throat, and shuffled a little closer. Aziraphale wished she’d just put an arm around her already, so she could lean on the demon, go soft and bury her face into her habit and let out the tears where no one would see them. 

_ And that,  _ Aziraphale reminded herself,  _ is exactly the sort of thing nuns aren’t allowed to do. _

Aziraphale had been surprised at how disapproving the sisters were of touching. It seemed as if they were determined to deprive themselves of whatever connection they could; anything that might interfere with their relationship to God. 

“I don’t think Heaven is any kinder than Hell,” Crowley said softly. “It’s just - a different side. It pretends to be Good.”

Aziraphale closed her eyes, as if that could block out the words.

“What can we do?” she asked. Crowley would sort it out. She always did. She was the one who rescued her, Aziraphale’s saviour since the dawn of time.

Crowley sighed. “We’ll manage.”

  
  


Crowley and Aziraphale managed, even while the other novitiates around them did not. Week by week, one by one, they were picked at and pulled apart by the Reverend Mother during confession. A lot of the younger novitiates packed their bags and went home, not able to manage the stress and the constant guilt that pervaded any group sessions they had now. The ones that left were in a bad way. Aziraphale could sense their pain, whether it was the grumbling of their starved stomachs, or red welts raised on their backs.

It was all very nasty, and the longer it went on, the more Aziraphale felt she couldn’t just  _ ignore _ it any longer. She sent the novitiates miraculously restful and dreamless sleeps after their ordeals, and Crowley must have worked some magic on them too - she was always looking drained and tired.

So tired, in fact, that when Aziraphale slipped into her room during Grand Silence one night, Crowley was fast asleep. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if she ought to leave. She didn’t  _ want  _ to leave. She’d just finished re-reading Donne’s holy sonnets, and whenever that happened, she always came away with a line she wanted to share. Tonight’s was:

_ If poysonous mineralls, and if that tree, _

_ Whose fruit threw death on else immortall us, _

_ If lecherous goats, if serpents envious _

_ Cannot be damn’d; Alas; why should I bee? _

It was not Aziraphale’s place to ask questions of the Almighty, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the works of humans who did. And Crowley always enjoyed reading about herself - well, mostly to point out the inaccuracies. Aziraphale wondered vaguely if Donne was Heaven or Hell’s. Surely Heaven’s - he  _ must  _ be…? 

She didn’t feel like checking.

Aziraphale stood, with the scrap of poetry in her hand, and realized she’d been watching Crowley sleep for entirely too long. She was beautiful like this, though. She slept the way she walked: angled and taking up as much space as possible.

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed, and gently tapped the demon’s shoulder.

“Crowley?” she tried. Maybe she should just let her sleep. But Crowley’s skin was warm and soft and glowing faintly in the moonlight. Aziraphale didn’t want to leave.

She shook Crowley’s shoulder. It only prompted a sleep-snuffle, and a slight re-positioning of limbs.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, a little louder, casting a quieting miracle down the hall. She shook Crowley again, and the demon’s eyes blinked open. They were hazy with sleep, golden and glowing and with all the depth that was usually hidden.

“‘Ziraphale…?” Crowley mumbled.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale stupidly. She should have just let Crowley sleep, goodness, what was she doing -

“Thankssss for waking me,” Crowley said, stretching out, her joints popping audibly. “I didn’t mean to ss-ss-oooh-ssnooooze,” she yawned. 

Aziraphale would never get used to all the words that popped into her head whenever Crowley was around.  _ Beautiful _ had been the most recent one to sweep her off her feet. Now she was faced with  _ adorable, _ and it wasn’t any easier to cope with.

“It’s quite alright,” she said. “You must be tired, if you dropped off just like that.”

“Eh,” Crowley muttered. “Haven’t slept properly for a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can -”

“No!” Crowley said, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s wrist. “No, it’s fine. More than fine. Talking to you is better than sleeping.”

Aziraphale ducked her head.

“Come on, then.” Crowley shuffled over, and Aziraphale snuggled down under the covers. Crowley drew the sheets over their heads, and Aziraphale conjured a tiny speck of light to rest between them. 

Here, between the soft linen sheets, it was hard to imagine the wrath of Heaven and Hell descending upon them. Hard to feel that Aziraphale was betraying anything, when Crowley’s warmth pulled her in like nothing else ever had.

“You’re very sweet when you sleep,” she blurted.

Crowley blinked at her like a very stunned owl, and went bright red.

“Er. Um. Thanks…?”

Aziraphale wished she hadn’t said anything.

“I only mean…”

“Yes?” Crowley said quickly. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale wanted to not be able to hear the plea in her voice. But she could, and it was there, and Crowley was all that was soft and gentle and good in the world, and wasn’t it time, surely, that she stopped ignoring it?

“Crowley,” she said brokenly, and reached out for the demon’s hand. Slim fingers twined with hers, such a beautiful warmth washing around her.  _ Breathe in. Breathe out. _

Aziraphale was the only one breathing.

“Crowley,” she began again, and sighed in frustration, entirely unable to trap the feelings she needed to convey into the mortal frame of words.

Crowley was close now. Their joined hands brushed the front of Aziraphale’s nightgown, and their breath was a shared thing. Aziraphale swallowed audibly.

“Angel, may I?”

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley was asking, and she knew that the sheets wouldn’t ever protect them from anything, and she knew that Crowley would never do anything without her explicit permission. She had to let this happen. She couldn’t just - take a backseat, like she usually did when it came to romantic gestures.

It was time to dare.

Aziraphale nodded, and then Crowley was kissing her. Her lips tasted like knowledge, like the first bite of an apple that had never been terribly well guarded, and Aziraphale had never been more glad to have failed her duty. Everything was lost in the slow and careful twine of their embrace, all thoughts, all meaning apart from them. Together.

When Crowley opened her mouth, though, meaning started to flow back. Aziraphale knew enough to know that Crowley was deliberate in her slow movements, tongue against tongue, and Aziraphale followed her lead. It was a golden, molten warmth, and they passed it back from one to the other like a very slow and romantic game of tennis.

After some time - seconds or minutes or hours or days, Aziraphale hadn’t been created with a mind to keep track of those mortal concepts particularly well - the kiss sweetened and came to a close. Aziraphale pushed her forehead against Crowley’s, not daring to open her eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of the demon’s slightly ragged breath.

As long as Aziraphale didn’t open her eyes, didn’t see those eyes that could only belong to a demon, the warmth could stay, the pull of the fabric above her was home, and she could just be - a person. Just an ordinary person, revelling in the kiss they’d been craving for too long. An ordinary person could even press forwards again, might be greedy, might want  _ another _ \- 

And so Aziraphale claimed Crowley’s soft lips with her own again, tried desperately to say what she had choked on earlier, pressing it into sweet honey-mead skin instead. She kissed down Crowley’s jawline, and further, down her neck. Crowley hummed underneath her as she worshipped the arch there, dipped into a clavicle, kissed and sucked until she found a sensitive spot that drew a whine from the back of Crowley’s throat.

Crowley clung to her then, hands digging into her shoulders. Aziraphale kissed Crowley again, and again. Crowley softened against her, as weak as a kitten.

It was daybreak, and not any natural closure of their inclinations, that brought the kissing to a close. Aziraphale sighed, and dropped a gentle kiss against Crowley’s forehead. She whispered a goodbye, and kept her eyes closed until she was out of the bed, not looking back as she walked out of the small room.

  
  


It wasn’t as awkward as Aziraphale had expected, seeing Crowley afterwards. It was actually rather lovely. Especially when Crowley blushed all the way through breakfast, and miracled twice the usual amount of brown sugar onto Aziraphale’s porridge.

But it was Thursday, and Thursday meant Confession Day. Aziraphale ought to have known their quiet happiness, hands finding one another under their habits in the sunlit library, was too good to last.

“Sister Antonia,” the Reverend Mother announced. Aziraphale felt a burst of icy shock flood through her, and then Crowley was shuffling into the middle of the circle. She cast a reassuring glance Aziraphale’s way. “Do you have doubts?”

Crowley drew in a deep breath. Aziraphale wasn’t breathing at all.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Quite a lot of them.”

A shocked ripple passed around the circle, but the Reverend Mother silenced it quickly with a glare.

“Why do you speak so boldly, my child?”

“I want to be honest.”

“Good. Then what, pray, are your doubts?”

Crowley nodded slowly. “Right. This could… take a while.”

“We do not leave until you have received all you are due.” Aziraphale felt a chill run down her spine. 

“Don’t you ever wonder why God put the apple in the garden?” Crowley asked, and it wasn’t addressed to the Reverend Mother alone anymore, but to the rest of the postulants too. “If it was H-His Great Creation, why bother with creating Evil?”

“Sister Antonia,” the Mother said. “The point of this exercise is not to argue on deeper philosophy and it is not, and quite frankly never has been, your place to do so. I want realistic examples of doubt from your time here at the convent. For instance,” and her beady eyes turned towards Aziraphale.  _ Oh God oh God. _ “You spend a lot of time with Sister Aziraphale.”

“Y-yes?” Crowley faltered. “What of it?”

“Don’t you think your time is better served building a relationship with God?”

_ Just say yes, _ Aziraphale prayed.  _ Say yes, and apologize. _

Crowley did not. She straightened up and drew flint into her gaze. 

“No.”

The Mother handed her the little bundle of knotted rope. “I trust you know how to use this.”

“There is a little of God in everyone,” Crowley went on, not taking the rope, “And sometimes the best way to serve Her is by loving - uck!” 

Aziraphale stopped hearing after that. She was too busy staring at the knot of rope that had caught Crowley over the shoulder, brought down by a wrinkled and unforgiving hand. Her sight began to flush with red, the silence turning to a loud ringing, her limbs locked in place with barely-contained rage.

Aziraphale stood up. She was taller than Reverend Mother, who was sitting on the chair, mouth open as she said something. Aziraphale didn’t care. She went to Crowley and pulled her up, didn’t listen to the demon either, and took her hand. It was shaking almost as violently as her own. They left the room unimpeded, accompanied only by the burning anger Aziraphale could feel spilling out through her eyes and drawing every muscle taut. 

Once they were out, Crowley’s hands were on her face. They patted her cheek urgently. Aziraphale’s senses began to clear.

“... -raphale? Aziraphale? Aziraphale! Listen to me, you can’t just -”

“Crowley,” she choked, and tightened a hand in her habit. “We’re leaving.”

“What?!” the demon yelped. 

The door to the confession room began to creak open, and Crowley snapped her fingers. Time froze.

“What,” she repeated. “Angel, I can handle it. I’m not  _ weak.” _

“I ought to rip that woman’s head off,” said Aziraphale, her voice unnaturally quiet and calm.

Crowley’s eyebrows almost disappeared beneath her wimple. “Okaaaay. Let’s just calm down, alright?”

“How can you be  _ calm?  _ Crowley, she hit you.” Just thinking about it made her vision blur. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Angel.  _ Angel. _ Please just - chill.”

“Crowley!” she yelled, pushing away from the demon’s arms. “I will not  _ chill  _ while that evil, murderous bi - b - oh God.”

Crowley moved forward hesitantly. “I’m okay, angel. Please don’t hurt anyone.”

Aziraphale put her hands over her face. Crowley’s arms around her were a welcome warmth this time, and she let herself be folded into them, pushing her face into the demon’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Crowley said, her hands rubbing Aziraphale’s back. “I’m okay.”

Aziraphale let herself cry. It wasn’t pretty, the way that angels should cry. In fact, it was a bit snotty. But Crowley didn’t push her away, God, what had Aziraphale done to deserve her? A friend who never pushed her away, who held her close whenever she was brave enough to step forwards? Watching Crowley be punished - had been terrible. But the rope had been small, and Crowley’s yelp of pain quiet. She was alright. It probably wouldn’t even bruise.

Crowley pulled back, took her sunglasses off, and looked at Aziraphale. The deep slit of pupil in her eyes seemed more ragged than usual. Aziraphale touched her face. She could feel the tiniest of ridges on Crowley’s cheek, and wondered where the ancient scar had come from. Who had struck it. Who had stood and watched.

“I won’t let you stay,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t let her do that to you.”

Crowley put her sunglasses back on, hiking them up her nose. “Don’t be daft. We’re not leaving.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, seizing the front of Crowley’s habit. “Why won’t you?”

Crowley sniffed and turned away. “We had a bet, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale would have laughed if she could have. “The - the  _ bet? _ That doesn’t  _ matter, _ Crowley, I don’t care! I’ll leave first. You can win. I don’t care about the stupid bet.”

Crowley paused and looked over her shoulder. “You can leave, angel. But I won’t.”

Time began to flow again as Crowley strode away. Aziraphale ran after her, her mind whirling, jarred by Crowley’s determination to keep herself caged.

“Please,” she said, taking Crowley’s hand. “I’ll do anything.”

But Crowley just laughed, low and resentful. “No,” she said. “You won’t.”

Aziraphale didn’t chase after her this time. She was bolted in place, the horrible, terrible truth echoing around her. 

She had never felt quite so small.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale didn’t visit Crowley that night, though she longed to. She wished she could do the same as she did for the others, and ensure that the demon slept long and deep. But it didn’t work that way, did it? Angelic energies. Demonic energies. Probably explode. The most she could do was hope and pray.

Aziraphale didn’t want to think about the face Crowley would make if she knew Aziraphale was  _ praying _ for her wellbeing. She didn’t want to think about the demon’s usual teasing, and yet it haunted her as she said her evening prayers.

They weren’t nearly as fun without Crowley making light of them.

It would go back to normal tomorrow.  _ She _ would go back to normal tomorrow. She just needed this one night to - to regroup. To reevaluate. To  _ freak out, _ as the psychedelic drug users might say.

There was something dark within her - not dark as in  _ Evil, _ the Tree of Knowledge Evil with a capital E. No, it was not Evil, but it was dark, shadowed, hidden, and it had been there for ages. Aziraphale didn’t want to inspect this dark and bony thing. It was so much easier to simply cast her eyes outwards, never in: to avoid moments of solitude and introspection that might graze too close to her soul.

The dark thing within her had a lot of feelings about Crowley. It knew that Crowley - loved. Crowley, the Bringer of Original Temptation. Crowley, the sly and wily demon. Crowley, her friend. Crowley  _ loved _ . If Aziraphale’s soul was dark, shadowed, full of holes, barely able to withstand a faint breeze without crumpling - Crowley’s would be light. Strong and fierce and bright, the shining star around which Aziraphale had no choice but to revolve. And the shadowed thing within Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. 

It felt a lot less like being in orbit sometimes, and more like being trapped in headlights.

Aziraphale had never been good at taking control of social situations. She muddled through, with a  _ mind how you go _ and  _ terrible weather, just terrible _ and  _ have you heard about poor Mrs Figg? _ but it was all just surface level - a blustery front to stop anything and anyone from getting through to her. Crowley loved with all the subtlety of a freight train, and no amount of blustering shields could ever stop Aziraphale from being pinned down by it. And now it seemed that Crowley’s force had taken them both quite off course, that the tracks of fate which they had seemed so destined to follow had been nothing but dead ends to another storm.

Aziraphale really hated arguing with Crowley. 

And something that you start to realize, when you’re no good at taking control of social situations, and you hate arguing, is that the only thing you can do while you fall hopelessly into a fight is stand and watch. Aziraphale had been standing and watching, dodging and blocking, blustering and hiding for her entire life. With Heaven, with Crowley, with all the humans who could somehow do everything she couldn’t, having none of the experience.

The dark thing within her wriggled and squirmed in discomfort. Aziraphale turned onto her stomach and pushed her face into her pillow, her vision turning pitch black. Tomorrow, she would go back to normal. But tonight, it seemed, was going to be one of those filled with solitude and introspection.

It was horrible, really, how easy Aziraphale found it going back to normal. There was a moment in morning chapel, when Crowley looked at her and she was caught in headlights and falling hard, fast, endless - but then she smiled and waved, and Crowley looked away quickly. At breakfast, a single grain of sugar somehow made its way onto her porridge. By the afternoon Aziraphale had gained momentum and managed to act entirely normally while Crowley slouched in her usual sunny spot in the library. If she didn’t actually get any reading done, well, she was only - an angel. 

And so things were back to normal. No acknowledgement of the fight, of the damage done, of the night before all that mess. And yet nothing felt the same. Aziraphale hadn’t realized they’d been riding a wave, higher and higher, until they’d come crashing down. 

Poor Crowley was taking the hit harder than her. She would often be asleep when Aziraphale came at night, and she wouldn’t want to wake her. Demons didn’t need sleep, but Aziraphale sometimes wondered if Crowley’s habit of sleeping regularly had rendered her more human somehow. How else could the dark circles beneath her eyes be explained? 

Crowley’s waking hours were different too - more subdued, more obedient. She no longer whispered sarcastic things to Aziraphale as they walked together, never asked questions during classes. Aziraphale didn’t know what had gotten into - or more accurately, out of - the demon, but she was resolved to fix it. The perfect opportunity presented itself soon enough.

Sister Bernadette, one of the more hardy and solid nuns around, was repainting one end of the main hallway. Sister Tamika, a tiny wee thing, was busily mopping the floor at the other end. Aziraphale, who had placed enough wet floor signs in her day to know an accident waiting to happen when she saw it, stole a glance at Crowley walking next to her. Nothing. Not a peep of recognition.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

It wasn’t hard to arrange things. Tamika suddenly had the urge to set up her mop and bucket near Bernadette’s ladder - and what of it? The whole hallway needed mopping, didn’t it? 

_ Now, carefully, slowly does it… _

Bernadette, on seeing Tamika’s relocation, frowned and began her descent. Aziraphale would never hurt the women, of course, but a little shock couldn’t hurt… and Crowley still wasn’t looking.

Bernadette’s foot slipped on the newly-wet floor, and she clutched at the ladder for support. The ladder, an old wooden thing, was not in fact designed for this, and slid with a crash to the floor. Bernadette’s paint bucket - with a small rearranging of time and space - was catapulted through the air, a projectile of shining off-white paint meeting with Tamika’s upturned and open-mouthed face.

A moment of quiet ensued, the disbelief and lack of dignity clouding in the hall with more and more intensity - until something had to give. Bernadette snorted. Tamika made a wet, painty sound. Aziraphale giggled tentatively. And then the hall was fuller with noise and laughter than Aziraphale had ever known it. Even Claire - even  _ Claire _ \- cracked a smile.

And when Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, she could see just a little of the light that was usually so blinding.

The problem with the Reverend Mother was that she didn’t seem to like people laughing. Or smiling. Or having any amount of fun.

She kept them at confession three times longer than usual, grilling them on their terribly inappropriate behaviour. Aziraphale’s knees hurt from all the kneeling by the end of it, but she didn’t dare miracle anything - not with the way Crowley was watching her. They never should have started this stupid dare. Aziraphale knew the nuns were strict, but - this? She hated having to see the people around her be sucked of all their joy.

It was more like Heaven than anything she had encountered on Earth before.

And that night, as she lay in Crowley’s bed, watching her chest rise and fall, Aziraphale knew she had to do something to stop it.

  
  


The Pope, despite all the tradition, wasn’t one of Heaven’s favourite people. For one, he was too modest. Heaven enjoyed a bit of grandeur, all of the ornamental bells and whistles. Pope John XXIII, though, was quite used to being common. So while he performed in all the ceremonies, let himself be dressed up and decorated accordingly - deep down in his heart, he still felt like that same little boy who played in the mud.

Aziraphale wouldn’t usually pry into a human’s mind like this, but it was the right thing to do in this case. It  _ was. _ At least, that was what she told herself while she lay in bed, staring at the stone ceiling in her solitary room. By that time, it was dawning, grey light washing over grey walls. Aziraphale tried to forget the knot in her stomach, and watched the sunlight grow into its daily warmth.

At the same time, though it was not yet light in the Vatican, there was a flurry of movement. Leather soles slapped against the pavement. Hushed voices mingled in inconspicuous corners. Loud voices argued in large and important meeting rooms.

And so the changes rippled.

Aziraphale rose, same as usual, and prayed her silent morning prayers. She filed along to morning song. She walked to breakfast next to Crowley, who was silent and drawn, and started to worry.

Had she not done it right? Perhaps the Pope had forgotten her orders? Surely, the news should have come through by now?

Halfway through breakfast, the Reverend Mother arrived. She was flustered, her face flushed with the brisk wind of the day, and didn’t bother to walk in the usual austere manner she prescribed.

“My children,” she said, raising her arms to the room. “My daughters.”

Aziraphale’s stomach roiled, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t started on her second bowl of porridge.

“As you know, there have been no changes in the Vatican for near on a hundred years.”

The silence grew more absolute, apart from the faint shuffling of coarse fabric as the nuns’ interest piqued.

“I just received a phone call from the Bishop, who will be announcing today a ruling called Vatican Two. There are changes. Many - many changes, some of which we will all appreciate, and some of which we will not.”

She was speaking slowly, drawing anticipation from her audience.

“The first is t-tolerance. Religious tolerance. We are encouraged, as Catholics, not to persecute other religions, and to respect others’ beliefs. Not that we need that reminder in an abbey,” she remarked, and Aziraphale’s hatred of the woman grew hotter. “Nuns are no longer required to wear the traditional habit. We can wear whatever we like. But you may choose to,” and here she scanned the room with no small amount of menace, “Keep wearing them. That would be my recommendation.”

Aziraphale huffed. Trust her to bully the nuns out of the freedom Vatican II would offer. She glanced across at Crowley to see if she had the same reaction - but she was as white as the hem of her habit, and was gripping her spoon hard.

“The next change - well. It is no longer acceptable to view acts of sacrifice, or self-punishment, as a necessary step in gaining favour with God. We must learn a new way of love, a love that does not rely on suffering.”

The Reverend Mother’s lips were puckered tightly, as if she’d just drunk lemon juice.

“Finally, the status of all nuns will be reduced to be as equals to any regular practicing Catholic. We are not more beloved or special in the eyes of God.”

Claire whimpered beside Aziraphale, who only had eyes for Crowley. Crowley was looking deeply into her porridge, her face starting to regain some colour.

“I’m sorry, sisters. So very sorry.” And with that, the Mother fled the room, leaving little cries of despair in her wake.

“Well,” said Aziraphale after a moment, “That didn’t go quite as I imagined.”

Crowley made a strangled noise from the back of her throat, then cleared it to speak.

“I’m  _ sorry?” _ she said.

“Well, I didn’t - I thought they’d all be a bit happier about it.” Aziraphale tried not to look at the table of older sisters weeping.

“I - angel, back up a step. Hold the fucking phone.”

“Sister Crowley!” Claire gasped, scandalized, drawn from her sullen reverie by the Most Terrible Curse Word.

“May the Lord forgive me,” Crowley muttered, dripping with sarcasm. “Come on, ‘Ziraphale.”

They got up from the table. No one noticed them slip out of the hall amidst the noise and chaos of Vatican II.

“Alright, so let me get this straight,” Crowley gritted out, once they were safely in her room. She sat on the bed, and Aziraphale sat next to her, crossing her legs underneath her habit. “You did this.”

“Did… what? Vatican II? No, my dear, the Pope did it.”

“You know what I mean,” Crowley scoffed.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I might’ve - er - given him some ideas. Nothing too dramatic.”

Crowley frowned. “See, that makes me think you  _ were _ dramatic.”

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “I might’ve given him nightmares forever.”

“You went into his dream?”

“I didn’t  _ mean _ to be scary, or anything, but I got the scaling all wrong and - well - I was about ten times his size. In the dream.”

Crowley clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, angel.”

“And my voice was all boom-y and echo-y and - oh gosh. Well, it worked.” Aziraphale pulled at her collar. Crowley’s eyes tracked the motion.

“It did,” Crowley agreed. Her face went through a myriad of complex emotions, each one harder to read than the last. “But why?”

“I’m - I’m sorry?”

Crowley sighed, and leaned forwards to take her hands. “Why did you terrify the Pope, angel?”

“Look, we’ve been through this, I didn’t mean to -”

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked down at their hands. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really?” Crowley shrugged. “I mean, I can imagine some - possibilities.”

“Gabriel didn’t tell me to, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Aziraphale quickly, lest Crowley jump to completely the wrong conclusion. “I don’t think Heaven really cares what the humans do, but this wouldn’t be their first choice.”

“So if it wasn’t on Heaven’s orders, and you did it - well - just after I - we - you know, then… Angel, can’t you say it? Please.”

Aziraphale felt her face getting very hot. “Do I have to?”

“Please,” said Crowley, her hands tightening minutely around Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale braced herself with a breath before looking up into Crowley’s eyes.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley’s eyes were glistening, her cheeks wet with tears. The truth suddenly didn’t seem as terrible or as frightening as those tears. “I did it for you. Because you wouldn’t leave, and because I didn’t want you to hurt. I didn’t want anyone else to hurt either, you know, but it was also - oh, you have to know - it was all for you. I only want you to be happy, Crowley. And if not happy, then safe.”

“And if I can’t be safe?” Crowley whispered. Was it just Aziraphale, or was Crowley’s face suddenly a lot bigger?

“Why wouldn’t you be safe?” Aziraphale whispered back, and then Crowley kissed her. Crowley showed her, with lips and tongue, exactly how and why neither of them could ever be safe again. There was adoration in every movement - Crowley’s hands caressing her hair, her tongue worshipping Aziraphale’s lower lip. It was all the proof Aziraphale had never asked for. All the proof she so desperately wanted.

“Oh,” she said, when Crowley drew back.

“Oh?” asked Crowley, resting her forehead against Aziraphale’s, eyes closed and breathing as hard as if she’d just run a marathon.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said with surety. “I - I see. I know. I understand, Crowley.”

“Angel?” The tears had not stopped, and now they continued down Crowley’s cheeks, dripping off her chin. “What do you understand?”

“How you love me,” Aziraphale said, stunned with the certainty of knowledge.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“And how I love you.”

And then Crowley’s arms were tight around her, and Aziraphale was reminded of just how snakelike she could be when she was overwhelmed.

_ “Can’t - breathe -”  _ she wheezed, and Crowley loosened her hold a little, frantically muttering apologies. Aziraphale kissed the top of her head, and let her arms bring Crowley close, like she’d always wanted to.

“Are you alright?” she asked, rubbing Crowley’s back.

“How can you ask me that?” Crowley replied, the indignation a little lost in the muffle of Aziraphale’s chest.  _ “Are you alright, _ honestly.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, kissing the top of her head again. Ooh, it was lovely to be able to do that. She did it again.

“I’m terrible,” said Crowley, still muffled. “I’m - I’m brilliant. I’m ecstatic. I’m broken. I’ll never walk again. I’ll never be able to touch the ground for how happy I am. I’ll float, and you’ll have to tie a string to my ankle and hold onto it like a balloon, in case I get too happy and I go off into the sky and -”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, patting her hair, “I get it. Thank you.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, and emerged from her chest, a bleary and ruffled mess of a demon. “I love you.”

And Aziraphale, who was sworn to love every living thing with all of God’s grace, had never loved anything quite so much as the sight in front of her.

  
  


The rest of the day was the most bizarre one anyone had experienced in the convent for centuries. A good half of the sisters went straight to raid the secondhand shops in town, and came back wearing all the wonderful and terrible, pent-up fashion choices they’d been wanting to make. If you have ever been to a uniformed school, you’ll know the sort of feeling that hung over the convent that day - the same as a non-uniform day, casual and relaxed and endlessly privileged. But that was only one type of feeling. The other, held by the more rigorous nuns, was a sense of the beginning of the end. In their dark blue and white, they made quite the sorry picture. They sulked in hallways, walked their meek walk to prayers, and accidentally forgot to include any sisters wearing earrings in their nightly blessings.

Crowley, of course, wore the tightest, blackest, sexiest jeans-and-a-jumper combo she could materialize. Well. Aziraphale hoped it was the sexiest, or else she really was never going to recover. For herself, Aziraphale wore a simple white dress with a fitted bodice and a flare at the waist. Nothing very special, and yet - when she saw Crowley that afternoon, in the library, the demon’s eyes glowed.

“Angel,” she purred as Aziraphale approached. “You look lovely.”

Aziraphale blushed, and curtseyed, and then felt ridiculous. “Er. Thank you. You look…” She took in Crowley properly, stretched and sinuous along the squashy couch, her legs propped up in their tight jeans artistically, her hair in a messy and ruffled bun. “... Delectable.”

Crowley’s prepared elegance vanished as she choked on air. “I’m not - I’m not  _ edible,  _ Aziraphale,” she said indignantly.

Aziraphale, who was suddenly feeling very bold and courageous, said, “Are you sure?”

Crowley’s mouth opened, and her cheeks flushed red.

“Because,” Aziraphale went on, her heart pounding hard, “If you weren’t - sure, that is - then maybe I could - you know. Test it out.”

Crowley blinked twice, very slowly and deliberately, as if trying to reset her vision. She cleared her throat.

“Aziraphale,” she said very seriously. “Are you - are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“Tell me what you think I’m asking.”

“You… want to…” Crowley stuck her tongue out and made a wiggling motion.

At this point, Aziraphale, who had been yearning for Crowley for months (years if she was honest with herself, which she was trying to be), would have been aroused by so much as Crowley’s bare ankle. As it was, she watched Crowley’s long, thin tongue, the wetness of it spiraling through the air, and felt a familiar pleasure start to warm in between her legs.

“Yes, exactly,” said Aziraphale, and took Crowley’s arm. “Let’s get out of here, if you - if you want to?”

Crowley nodded frantically, licking her lips. Aziraphale couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. Her feet ledt them to the chapel by memory, her head full of Crowley’s scent, her breathing, her arm warming Aziraphale’s palm.

“Consecrated ground?” Crowley asked, grinning.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry, are you -”

“How do you think I’ve been managing?” Crowley asked, waggling a foot in Aziraphale’s direction. “Honestly.”

Her feet had the most incredibly high platform shoes Aziraphale had ever seen. They were about twice as high as any heel ought to go, and explained a lot about why Aziraphale had been feeling so short.

“Oh,” she said, and looked back at Crowley, suddenly awkward. “I didn’t - well - I suppose the floor isn’t of any use, then.”

Crowley grinned at her. “Lucky there’s a table, then.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale again, unable to help smiling back, and then Crowley was kissing her and kissing her, and Aziraphale was trying desperately to guide them in the direction of the table without losing a second of Crowley’s body contact. They stumbled, and Crowley kept tripping over Aziraphale’s hem, but eventually they hit the table, and Crowley hitched herself up onto it immediately. Aziraphale kissed her, fast and hard and urgent, and shivered as Crowley’s legs came up to wrap around her waist.

“Oh, Crowley,” she murmured, and moved to kiss a line down Crowley’s neck. Crowley whimpered and fisted her hands in the front of Aziraphale’s dress. Crowley’s jumper got in the way of Aziraphale’s kissing much sooner than she would have liked. Aziraphale trailed her hands down Crowley’s jumper to the hem, and pulled at it.

“Is this okay?” she asked, her voice breathier than usual. 

Crowley nodded eagerly, and Aziraphale let her hands slide up underneath the soft wool. Crowley’s stomach tensed beneath her hands at first, but relaxed as she stroked the skin with an unashamed reverence. Aziraphale leaned forwards to kiss Crowley slowly, trying to pour the depth of her feeling into it. Then her hands reached Crowley’s bra, and she had to breathe slow and deep to keep herself from hyperventilating.

“O - Okay?” she asked, her thumb running just under the line of Crowley’s bra. 

“Yes,” said Crowley, her voice high and shaky. “Please.”

Aziraphale pushed her fingers underneath the wire, and then further into the cup, savouring every inch of soft skin she discovered.

“Hnnng,” Crowley moaned, tipping her head back.

Aziraphale readjusted her hand slightly and reached around to pop the clasp, and then there was so much more room to properly hold Crowley’s breast. Aziraphale rubbed her thumb over Crowley’s hardening nipple, earning a hiss of satisfaction.

“Angel,” Crowley groaned, her legs trying to pull Aziraphale closer than the table would allow, “Take this  _ off.” _

Aziraphale didn’t point out that she could’ve just miracled it, understanding the need to - well - do it properly. She tugged Crowley’s jumper up over her head, the demon raising her arms up for it to come off - her hair all staticky afterwards. It was so adorable that Aziraphale was almost too distracted to take in the sight that was Crowley, bare-chested, with only an undone bra loosely cupped around her breasts.

Almost.

Aziraphale ran her hands over Crowley’s shoulders, taking her bra straps and pulling them off. Crowley held out her arms, letting the bra drop to the ground, and looked at Aziraphale with wide, uncertain eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale said, in complete and utter awe. “I - Crowley -  _ so _ beautiful.”

Crowley blushed, and looked down. Aziraphale kissed her cheek gently, then the other. She returned her hands to Crowley’s breasts, drawing a contented sigh from the demon. Then she bent down and took one of Crowley’s nipples into her mouth. She couldn’t say exactly how she knew that Crowley would like it, only that as soon as her tongue touched the slightly stiffened skin, Crowley let out a deep moan, and let her head roll back again. Aziraphale experimented with her tongue, rolling it back and forth, with exceedingly positive feedback. 

When she accidentally grazed the tip of Crowley’s nipple with her teeth, Crowley let out a high keen of pleasure, and clutched her shoulder so tightly she was sure to bruise. Aziraphale would have to make sure to look at the mark later, to savour it. She nipped lightly at Crowley’s nipple, trying out different angles and pressures, as Crowley shook against her. After a while, it evidently grew too much to bear, because Crowley pushed her head away.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked quickly. “I’m sorry if I -”

“Angel,” Crowley growled, “Get that mouth on me.  _ Now.” _

Aziraphale didn’t need telling twice. She dropped to her knees, fumbling with Crowley’s fly. Crowley’s hands tried to help, scrabbling around and yanking her jeans down a little way. She leaned back on her hands on the table for a better angle. Aziraphale’s brain short-circuited when she saw -

“You don’t wear  _ knickers?” _ she demanded, her brain hazy with arousal.

“Do you want me to?” Crowley asked, a smile in her voice.

“Never,” said Aziraphale, and bent to work.

Crowley tasted divine, a mix of salt and sweet that Aziraphale would die for. She found it wonderfully easy to devour Crowley like she would a cream cake, complete with contented hums, and heightened by Crowley’s shivers and groans of pleasure. Aziraphale wasn’t one to take her meals for granted, and she intended to show her gratitude, over and over and over again.

Then Crowley began to breathe faster, her chest rising with the effort of it, and her legs tightened around Aziraphale’s head. She came with a gasp, as if the wind had been knocked from her, and Aziraphale looked up in time to see Crowley’s eyes widen into a full yellow, snakelike in their loss of control.

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, her face relaxing.

Aziraphale smiled and pressed a final kiss to her clit, eliciting a little intake of breath, before going to extricate herself and -

_ Bang. _

“Oh, my God, where are you, why have you -  _ Sisters?!” _

Aziraphale whipped her head around so quickly she lost balance, and fell on her hands and knees on the floor. She looked up, suddenly very aware of how wet her lips and chin were.

The interruption was Claire.

“Ugh,” groaned Crowley. “No chance, then.”

Claire’s eyes were wide and horrified as they looked past Aziraphale. She suddenly felt very protective, and stood up to block Crowley from Claire’s sight.

“You - wh - what were you  _ doing?” _ Claire gasped, clutching at the pew beside her.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale couldn’t help her smile.

Claire’s expression turned from outraged to outright murderous.

“I’m telling Reverend Mother,” she said, crossing her arms and raising her chin, “And then we’ll see where you are.” She marched out of the chapel, slamming the door behind her.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. They looked at each other for a long moment.

And then they burst into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [nocturnalmesmerism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalmesmerism/pseuds/nocturnalmesmerism) for this lovely artwork inspired by this chapter 💖💖💖  
> 


	5. Epilogue

In hindsight, Aziraphale thought, it was pretty obvious that the convent wasn’t going to work out long-term. Firstly, nuns didn’t tend to be too keen on intra-convent relations. And Aziraphale was intending on having a lot of - well - relations. Second, they didn’t have nearly the range of poetry that Aziraphale’s bookshop did. She ran her hand lovingly over the leather spines on her shelf. And third, their porridge was terrible. Just terrible.

“I bought crêpes,” Crowley announced, sweeping through the door. “And don’t give me that look, it’s only the second time this week.”

“You’re spoiling me,” said Aziraphale, reaching for the paper plate eagerly, “Second time this week? Crowley, it’s Tuesday.”

“No-one needs to know that,” Crowley dismissed, waving her hand and flopping into her favourite leather armchair. 

The crêpes were Aziraphale’s favourite - very simple, with lemon juice and icing sugar. Scrumptious. She let out a moan of delight, half because it  _ was  _ scrumptious, half because she knew exactly the reaction Crowley would have.

“Angel,” Crowley purred, right on cue. “Come here.”

Aziraphale deposited herself in Crowley’s lap, letting her back rest against the demon’s arm for support. She took another bite of the crepe.

“Just lovely,” she murmured, licking her lips and gazing into Crowley’s eyes. “Thank you, darling.”

Crowley’s face broke into one of those smiles that had taken some getting used to. She shone like the brightest day when she was like this - so happy, radiant, and all of it directed at Aziraphale.

_ “You’re _ lovely,” Crowley said, leaning forwards to kiss her cheek. Aziraphale shuffled herself around a little to optimize her position for comfort, crêpe-eating, and of course, the best view of Crowley.

“Mmmm,” she hummed as she ate more. She took care to clean her fingers of lemon juice after each bite, though it really wasn’t necessary.

“Hnng,” Crowley said, her eyelashes fluttering at the sight. “Angel, can I…?”

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hand move up her thigh suggestively. 

“Oh,” she said, her face heating. “Should I, er, finish this first?”

“You don’t need to,” said Crowley. “Just let me take care of you.”

Aziraphale blushed more, and nodded. She licked a drop of lemon juice from her thumb without thinking, and Crowley whined. Her hand moved beneath Aziraphale’s dress, and found its way up soft thighs to the wetness between Aziraphale’s legs.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, as Crowley’s fingers stroked her gently through her underwear. “Oh, that’s rather good.”

“Shhh,” said Crowley, and then Aziraphale’s underwear had mysteriously disappeared, and Crowley’s fingers were warm against her slick labia. She had to make a conscious effort not to drop her plate. Crowley smirked at her, her fingers moving gently against Aziraphale’s clit.

Aziraphale didn’t think she could ever get tired of this. It was a warmth she had never felt before, like a warm bath that sparkled with magic all around her, engulfing, absorbing, filling her with beautiful sensation.

Slowly and deliberately, Aziraphale took a bite of her crêpe. Crowley bit her lip, her fingers using more pressure now, circling a little faster. Aziraphale ate more of the crêpe. Crowley hissed, and did exactly what Aziraphale had been aiming for - her fingers began to move properly, fast and hard and relentless.

Aziraphale let the crêpe-plate rest on her stomach as pleasure started to overcome her. She leaned her head into the crook of Crowley’s neck, her hands clutching at Crowley’s shoulders. She moaned with desire as she got closer, and closer, and then - 

Aziraphale’s release was long, and like a tidal wave. The rumbles approached first, and then, without too much warning, the whole thing hit. Light spread through her, both metaphorically and literally. She screwed up her eyes against the glow. Crowley kissed the top of her head gently as the waves subsided, and Aziraphale was left washed-up in her arms, feeling divine.

“Here,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale opened her mouth for the last of the crêpe. Crowley fed it to her tenderly. Aziraphale relished the contrast of sweet and sour, sucking on Crowley’s fingers longer than strictly necessary.

“Thank you,” she murmured to Crowley, when the lemon juice had all been well and truly sucked. “I love you.”

“I love yo - mmf!” Crowley was cut off by Aziraphale’s lips on hers. She kissed Crowley tenderly, letting herself savour the taste and feel that was so uniquely Crowley. Her lips were soft, but - as Crowley had demonstrated - hid sharp teeth. Said teeth dragged over Aziraphale’s lower lip, and Aziraphale sighed with pleasure. Crowley’s tongue was soft, too, and carried with it a certain smokiness that could drive Aziraphale wild.

Now, though, Crowley’s tongue slipping into her mouth incited warm and bubbly feelings, rather than deep, tumultuous ones. It was easy to feel that way, ensconced in Crowley’s embrace, the mid-morning light warming her arm where it lay around Crowley’s neck. 

As ridiculous as it might seem, all kisses have to end. When Aziraphale pulled back (in the now late-morning light), Crowley looked up at her with no trace of disappointment, and every sign of love.

“I was  _ going _ to say,” she smiled, “I love you.”

Aziraphale smiled back. It was easy to smile back. It was easy to love. It was all so easy that she had to wonder if she hadn’t been designed for it in the first place.

“I know,” she said, and found that she meant it. “Have I told you today that you’re beautiful?”

Because she was. She was Crowley, and she was so beautiful.

“No,” said Crowley, “But you tell me so often that I - I sort of know I am.”

Aziraphale’s heart swelled until she thought it would burst. She leaned forwards to kiss Crowley again, and again, and this time, she really thought she might never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I love and appreciate you all!!! 💖💖💖

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] to a nunnery, go, and quickly too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22413769) by [semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic), [starknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/pseuds/starknight)




End file.
